


I've got your number

by SummerDaze



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Eventual Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, F/M, Fluff, POV Sansa, SanSan Week, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-14 16:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13593627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerDaze/pseuds/SummerDaze
Summary: Based on the novel 'I've Got Your Number' by Sophie Kinsella.Sansa Stark is mid hen night (bachelorette party) when disaster strikes and her super important, invaluable, heirloom engagement ring goes missing. Desperate to get the ring back before Joffrey's awful family notice its missing, will she find the ring, or will she realise there was something missing from her relationship all along?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Copywright to Sophie Kinsella and GRRM - which isn't a sentence I ever thought I would read.

Ok, calm down. Just...Calm down. Get some perspective. Its not as if its an earthquake or a crazed gunman or nuclear bomb, is it? On the scale of disasters, this is not huge. _Not huge_. At all. One day I’ll look back on this and it will probably laugh and think haha how silly I was to worry so much. 

 

Stop it, Sansa. Don’t even try. I’m not laughing - in fact I feel sick. I’m walking blindly around the hotel ballroom, my heart thudding, looking fruitlessly on the awful patterned blue carpet, behind gilt chairs, under discarded paper napkins, in places where it couldn’t possibly be. 

 

I’ve lost it. Its the only possible explanation. The one thing in the world I wasn’t supposed to lose. My engagement ring.

 

To say this is a special ring is an understatement. Its been in Joffrey’s family for generations, dating all the way back to the First Men. It’s this stunning emerald stone - the exact colour of Joffrey’s eyes - surrounded on either side with diamonds as big as ice chips. And even if it wasn’t one hundred percent to my taste, it is priceless, not only in sentimental value but in financial value too. Joff had to get it out of a special bank vault before her proposed. I’ve worn it ever day for three whole months, putting it religiously on a special china tray at night, feeling for it on my finger every thirty seconds...and now, on the very first day his parents are coming back into town, I’ve lost it. The very same _day_.

 

Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister are, at this precise moment, sailing back from a state visit to Braavos where they have been in six months of negotiations with the Iron Bank. I can picture it now, their huge ship smoothly gliding into the Blackwater Bay. Robert Baratheon standing at the ship’s helm, looking out across King’s Landing, the small kingdom he was Mayor of. Cersei likely wouldn’t be with him, perhaps sitting in the ships lounge area, definitely with a glass of wine - she was never without one. Honestly, I don’t know which of them is more intimidating. 

 

Her. She’s so sarcastic and impossible hard to read,

No him. He’s always drunk and rude.

No definitely her. All that glossy blonde hair and family aristocracy. 

In truth they are both scary. And docking in about an hour, and of course, they’ll want tto see the ring...

 

No. Do not hyperventilate, Sansa. Stay positive. I just need to look at this from a different angle. Like...what would Poirot do? Poirot wouldn’t flap around in panic. He’d stay calm and use his little grey cells and recall some tiny, vital detail which would be the clue to everything. 

 

I squeeze my eyes tight. Little grey cells. Come on. Do your best.

 

Thing is, I’m not sure Poirot had three glasses of pink champagne and a mojito before he solved the murder on the Orient Express.

 

“Miss?” A grey haired cleaning lady is trying to get around me with a hoover and I gasp in horror. They’re hoovering the ballroom already? What if they suck it up? 

 

“Excuse me.” I grab her blue nylon shoulder. “Could you just give me five more minutes to search before you start hoovering?” 

 

“Still looking for your ring, love?” She shakes her head doubtfully, then brightens. “I expect you’ll find it safe at home! It’s probably been there all the time!”

 

“Maybe.” I force myself to nod politely, although I feel like screaming “I’m _not_ that stupid!”

 

On the other side of the ballroom of the ballroom I spot another cleaner clearing cupcake crumbs and crumpled paper napkins into a black plastic bin bag. She isn’t concerntrating at all. Wasn’t she listening to me?

 

“Excuse me!” My voice shrills out as I sprint across to her. “You _are_ looking out for my ring aren’t you?”

 

“No sign of it so far, love.” The woman sweeps another load of detritus off the table into the bin bag without giving it a second glance.

 

“Careful!” I grab for the napkins and pull them out again, feeling each one carefully for a hard lump, not caring that I’m getting buttercream icing all over my hands. 

 

“Love, I _am_ trying to clear up.” The cleaner grabs the napkins out of my hands. “Look at the mess you’re making.”

 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry.” I scrabble for the cupcake cases I dropped on the floor. “But you don’t understand. If I don’t find this ring, I’m dead.” 

 

I want to grab the bin bag and do a forensic check of the contents with tweezers. I want to put plastic tape around the whole room declare it a crime scene. It has to be here, it _has_ to be.

 

Unless someone’s still got it. That’s the only other possibility that I’m clinging to. One of my friends is still wearing it and somehow hasn’t noticed. Perhaps it’s slipped into a handbag...maybe it’s fallen into a pocket...it’s stuck on the threads of a jumper...the possibilities in my head are getting more and more far-fetched, but I haven’t given up on them.

 

“Have you tried the cloakroom?” The woman swerves to get past me.

 

Of course I’ve tried the cloakroom. I checked every single cubicle on my hands and knees. And then all the basins. Twice. And then I tried to persuade the concierge to close it and have all the sink pipes investigated. But he refused. He said it would be different if I knew I had lost it there for certain, and he was sure the police would agree with him, and could I please step aside from the front desk as there were people waiting?

 

Police. Bah. I thought they’d come roaring round in their squad cars as soon as I called, not just tell me to come to the station and file a report. I don’t have time to file a report! I’ve got to find my ring!

 

I hurry back to the circular table we were sitting at this afternoon and crawl underneath, patting the carpet, yet again. How could I have been so _stupid_?

 

It was my friend from back home, Jeyne’s idea to get tickets for the Marie Curie Champagne Tea. She couldn’t come to my office hen spa weekend, so this was kind of a substitute. There were eight of us on the table, all merrily swigging champagne and stuffing down cupcakes, and it was just before the raffle started that someone said “Come on, Sansa, let’s have a go with your ring.”

 

I can’t even remember who said that now. Mya, maybe? Mya was at University with me, and now we work together at First Fit Physio, with Randa who was also on our course. Randa was at the tea too, but I’m not sure she tried the ring on. Or did she? Brienne was there with Arya but I don’t think they tried it on - they aren’t Joff’s biggest fans. 

 

I can’t believe how rubbish I am at this. How can I do a Poirot if I can’t even remember the basics? The truth is, everyone seemed to be trying on the ring. Jeyne and Mya and Margaery (my wedding planner who’s kind of become a friend) and her assistant Renly.

 

I’ll admit it: I was basking in all the admiration. I still can’t believe something so grand and beautiful belongs to me. The fact is, I still can’t believe any of it. I’m engaged! Me, Sansa Stark from Winterfell. Engaged to a shining golden blonde Lannister who’s been on TV and is often in the news. Only six months ago my love life was a disaster zone. I’d had no significant action for a year and was reluctantly deciding if I should give that match.com guy with bad breath a second chance...and now my wedding is only ten days away! I wake up every morning and look at Joffrey’s smooth, kind of pale, but perfect, sleeping back; and think ‘My fiance. The hounourable Lord Joffrey Baratheon.’ and feel a tiny tweak of disbelief. And then I swivel round and look at the ring, gleaming and expensive on my nightstand and feel another tweak of disbelief. 

 

_What will Joffrey say?_

 

My stomach drops and I swallow hard. No. Don’t think about that. Come on little grey cells. Get with it.

 

I remember that Margaery wore the ring for a long time. She really didn’t want to take it off. Then Jeyne started tugging at it saying “My turn, my turn!” And I remember warning her “Gently!”

 

I mean it’s not like I was _irresponsible_. I was carefully watching the ring as it was passed round the table.

 

But then my attention was split because they started on the raffle and the prizes were fantastic. A week in an Italian villa, and a top-salon haircut, and a Harvey Nichols voucher...The ballroom was buzzing with people pulling out tickets and numbers being called out from the platform and women jumping up and shouting “ _Me_!”

 

And _this_ is the moment where I went wrong. This is the gut churning, if-only instant. If I could go back in time, that’s the moment I would march up to myself and say severely, “Sansa Stark, _priorities_.”

 

But you don’t realise, do you? The moment happens, and you make your crucial mistake, and then it’s gone and the chance to do anything about it is blown away. 

 

So what happened was, Jeyne won Wimbledon tickets. I love Jeyne to bits but she’s always been a bit feeble. She didn’t stand up and yell “Me! Woohoo!” at top volume, she just raised her hand a few inches. Even those of us on her table didn’t realise she’d won. 

 

Just as it dawned on me that Jeyne was holding a raffle ticket in the air, the presenter on the platform said “I think we’ll draw again, if theres no winner...”

 

“Shout!” I poked Jeyne and waved my own hand wildly “Here! The winner’s over here!” 

 

“And the new number is...4-4-0-4.”

 

To my disbelief, some dark-haired girl on the other side of the room started whooping and brandishing a ticket. 

 

“She didn’t win!” I exclaimed indignantly. “ _You_ won.”

 

“It doesn’t matter.” Jeyne was shrinking back. 

 

“Of _course_ it matters!” I cried out before I could stop myself, and everyone at the table started laughing.

 

“Go, Sansa.” called out Mya “Go, White Knightess! Sort it out!”

 

This is an old joke. Just because there was this one incident at school, where I started a petition to save the hamsters, everyone started calling me the White Knightess. My so-called catchphrase is apparently ‘Of _course_ it matters!’

 

Anyway. Suffice to say that within two minutes I was up on the stage with the dark-haired girl, arguing with the presenter about how my friend’s ticket was more valid than hers. 

 

I know now that I should have never left the table. I should never have left the ring, even for a second. I can see how stupid that was. But in my defence, I didn’t know the fire alarm was going to go off, did I?

 

It was so surreal. One minute, everyone was sitting down at a jolly champagne tea. The next minute, a siren was blaring through the air and there was pandemonium, with everyone on their feet, heading for the exits. I could see Randa, Mya and all the others grabbing their bags and making their way to the back. A man in a suit came on to the stage and started ushering me, the dark-haired girl and the presenter towards a side door, and wouldn’t let go the other way. “Your safety is our priority.” he kept saying. 

 

Even then, it’s not as if I was _worried_. I didn’t think the ring would have _gone_. I assumed one of my friends had it safe and I’d meet up with everyone outside and get it back.

 

Outside, of course, it was mayhem. There was some big business conference happening at the hotel as well as our tea, and all the delegates were spilling out of different doors into the road, and hotel staff were trying to make announcements with loudspeakers, and cars were beeping, and it took me ages just to find Jeyne and Margaery in the melee. 

 

“Have you seen my ring?” I demanded at once, trying not to sound accusatory. “Who’s got it?”

 

Both of them looked blank. 

“Dunno.” Jeyne shrugged. “Didn’t Renly have it?” 

 

So I plunged back into the throng to find Renly, but he didn’t have it and thought Mya had itand Mya though Randa had it and Randa thought Margaery might have had it, but I’d already asked her and she’d left already.

The thing about panic is, it creeps up on you. One minute you’re quite calm, still telling yourself, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it can’t be lost.” The ext, the Marie Curie staff are announcing that the event will be curtailed early due to unforeseen circumstances, and handing out goody bags. And all your friends have disappeared to find transport to get themselves home. And your finger is still bare. And a voice inside your head is screeching ‘Oh my God! I knew this would happen! Nobody should ever have entrusted me with an antique ring! Big mistake! Big mistake!’

 

And that’s how you find yourself under a table an hour later, groping around a grotty hotel carpet, praying desperately for a miracle. (Even though your fiance’s grandfather has written a whole bestselling book in how miracles don’t exist and it’s all superstition and even saying ‘OMG’ is a sign of a weak mind.)

 

Suddenly I realize my phone is flashing, and grab it with trembling fingers. Three messages have come through, and I scroll through them in hope.

 

** Found it yet? Jeyne xx **

 

**Sorry, haven’t seen it. Don’t worry, I wont breathe a word to Joff. Mya**

 

** Hi Sans! God, how awful, to lose your ring! Actually I thought I saw it...[incoming text] **

 

I stare at my phone, galvanized. Brienne thought she saw it? Where?

 

I crawl out from under the table and wave my phone around, but the rest of the text resolutely refuses to come through. The signal here is rubbish! How can this call itself a five star hotel? I’ll have to go outside. 

 

“Hi!” I approach the grey haired cleaner, raising my voice above the Hoover’s roar. “I’m just popping outside to check a text. But if you _do_ find the ring, just call me, I’ve given you my mobile number, I’ll just be in the street.”

 

“Right you are, love.” Says the cleaner, patiently.

 

I hurry through the lobby, dodging groups of conference delegates, slowing slightly as I pass the concierge’s desk.

 

“Any sign of-”

 

“Nothing handed in yet, madam.” He cut me off.

 

The air outside is balmy, with just a hint of summer, even though it’s only mid April. I hope the weather will still be like this in ten days time, because my wedding dress is backless and I’m counting on a fine day. 

 

There are wide shallow steps in front of the hotel and I walk up and down them, swishing my phone back and forth, trying to get a signal but with no success. At last I head down on the actual pavement, waving my phone around more wildly, holding it over my head, then leaning into the street, my phone in my outstretched fingertips. 

 

_Come on phone,_ I mentally cajole it. _You can do it. Do it for Sansa. Fetch the message. There must be a signal somewhere...You can do it._

 

“Aaaahhhhhh!” I hear my own yell of shock before I even clock what’s happened. There’s a twisting pain in my shoulder, my fingers feel scratched. A figure on a bike is pedaling swiftly towards the end of the road. I only have time to register an old grey hoodie and skinny black jeans before the bike turns the corner. 

 

My hand’s empty. What the _hell_.

 

I stare at my palm in numb disbelief. It’s gone. That guy stole my phone. He _stole_ it. 

 

My phone’s my _life_. I can’t exist without it. It’s a vital organ. 

 

“Madam, are you alright?” The doorman is hurrying down the steps. “Did something happen? Did he hurt you?” 

 

“I...I’ve been mugged,” I somehow manage to stutter. “My phone’s been nicked.”

 

The doorman clicks sympathetically. “Chancers, they are. Have to be so careful in an area like this...”

 

I’m not listening. I’m shaking all over. I’ve never felt so bereft and panicky. What do I do without my phone? How do i function? My hands keep automatically reaching for my phone in its usual place in my pocket. Every instinct in me wants to text someone ‘OMG I’ve lost my phone!’ _But how can I do that without a bloody phone?_

 

My phone is my people. It’s my friends. It’s my family. It’s my work. It’s my world. It’s my everything. I feel like someone’s wrenched my life-support system away from me. 

 

“Shall I call the police, madam?” The doorman is peering at me anxiously. 

 

I’m too distracted to reply. I’m consumed with a sudden, even more terrible realisation. The ring. I’ve handed out my mobile number to everyone: the cleaners, the cloakroom attendants, the Marie Curie people, everyone. What if someone finds it? What if someone’s got it and they’re trying to call me _right this minute_ and there’s no answer because Hoodie Guy has already chucked my SIM card into the river?

 

Oh God. I need to talk to the concierge. I’ll give him my home number. 

 

No. Bad idea. If they leave a message, Joff might hear it. 

 

Ok, so...so...I’ll give him my work number. Yes. 

 

Except no one will be at the physio clinic this evening. I can’t go and sit there for hours, just in case. 

 

I’m starting to feel seriously freaked out now. Everything’s unravelling. 

 

To make matters even worse, as I run back into the lobby, the concierge is busy. His desk is surrounded by a large group of conference delegates, talking about restaurant reservations. I try to catch his eye, hoping he’ll beckon me forward as a priority, but he studiously ignores me, and I feel a twinge of hurt. I know I’ve taken up quite a lot of his time this afternoon - but doesn’t he realise what a hideous crisis I’m in?

 

“Madam.” The doorman has followed me into the lobby, his brow creased with concern. “Can we get you something for the shock? Arnold!” He briskly calls over a waiter. “A brandy for the lady, please, on the house. And if you talk to our concierge he’ll help you with the police. Would you liketo sit down?”

 

“No, thank you.” A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Maybe I should phone my own number! Call the mugger! I could ask him to come back, offer him a reward...What do you think? Could I borrow your phone?”

 

The doorman almost recoils as I thrust out a hand.

 

“Madam, I think that would be a very foolhardy action.” He says severely. “And I’m sure the police would agree you should do no such thing. I think you must be in shock. Kindly have a seat and try to relax.”

 

Hmm. Maybe e’s right. I’m not wild about setting up some assignation with with a criminal in a hoodie. But I can’t sit down and relax; I’m far to hyper. To calm my nerves I start walking round and round the same route, my heels clicking on the marble floor. Past the massive potted ficus tree...past the table with the newspapers...past a big shiny litter bin...back to the ficus. It’s a comforting little circuit, and I can keep my eyes fixed on the concierge the whole time, waiting for him to be free. 

 

The lobby is still bustling with executive types from the conference. Through the glass doors I can see the doorman back in the steps, busy hailing taxis and pocketing tips. A squat Braavosi man in a blue suit is standing near me with some Westerosi looking businessmen, exclaiming in what sounds like loud furious Braavosi and gesticulating at everybody with the conference pass strung round his neck on a red cord. He’s so tiny and the other men look so nervous, I almost want to smile. 

 

The brandy arrives on a salver and I pause briefly to drain it in one, then keep walking in the same repetitive route. 

 

Potted ficus...newspaper table...litter bin...potted ficus...newspaper table...litter bin.

 

Now I’ve calmed down a bit, I’m starting to churn with murderous thoughts. Does that Hoodie Guy realise how _crucial_ a phone is? It’s the worst thing you can steal from a person. The _worst_.

 

And it wasn’t even that great a phone. It was pretty ancient actually, So good luck to Hoodie Guy if he wants to type ‘B’ in a text or use the built in GPS that never recognises where you are. _Then_ he’ll be sorry. 

 

Ficus...newspapers...bin...ficus...newspaper...bin....

 

_And_ he hurt my shoulder. Bastard. Maybe I could even sue him for millions. If they ever catch him, which they won’t.

 

Ficus...newspapers...bin...

 

_Bin_.

Wait.

Whats that?

 

I stop dead in my tracks and stare into the bin, wondering if someone’s playing a trick on me. Or maybe I’m hallucinating. 

 

Its a phone. 

Right there in the litter bin.

 


	2. Chapter 2

I blink a few times and look again - but it’s still there, half hidden amid a couple of discarded conference programmes and a Starbucks cup. What’s a phone doing in a _bin_?

 

I look around to see if anyone is watching me - then reach in gingerly and pull it out. It has a couple of dropsof coffee on it, but otherwise it looks perfect. Its a good one, too. Looks almost brand new. 

 

Cautiously I turn and survey the thronging lobby. Nobody’s paying me the slightest bit of attention. No one’s rushing up and exclaiming “ _There’s_ my phone!” And I’ve been walking around this area for the last ten minutes. Whoever threw this phone in here did so a while ago. 

 

There’s a sticker on the back of the phone with _Three Hounds Consulting Group_ printed in tiny letters and a number. Did someone just chuck it away? Is it broken? I press the only button on the sleek device and the screen glows. It seems in perfect working order to me.

 

A tiny voice in my head is telling me that I should hand it in. Take it up to the front desk and say, “Excuse me, I think someone’s lost this phone.” That’s what I should do. Just march up to the desk, right now, like any responsible, civic minded member of society...

 

My feet don’t move an inch. It’s as if they are glued to the floor. My hand tightens protectively around the phone. The thing is, I _need_ a phone. I bet Three Hounds Consulting Group, whoever they are, have millions of phones. And it’s not like I found it on the floor or in the cloakroom, is it? It was in the bin. Things in bins are _rubbish_. They’re fair game. They’ve been relinquished to the world. That’s the rule. 

 

I peer into the bin again, and glimpse of a red cord, just like the ones round all the delegates necks. I check the concierge to make sure he’s not watching and take a breath, plunging my hand in again and pull out a conference pass. My cheeks turn pink and my nose is wrinkled when I take in what I’ve just done...but, I _am_ desperate. It’s an emergency situation, isn’t it?

 

Witnessing my lowest moment, the mugshot of a stunningly pretty blonde girl stares up at me from the conference pass. Underneath the photo the name Elaria Sand is printed, along with Three Hounds Consulting Group.

 

I’m building up a pretty good theory now. I _could_ be Poirot. This is Elaria Sand’s phone and she threw it away. For...some reason or other. 

 

Well, that’s her fault. Not mine.

 

The phone suddenly buzzes and I start. Crap! It’s alive. The ringtone begins at top volume - and it’s Beyonce Single Ladies. I quickly press ‘Ignore’ but a moment later it starts up again, loud and unmistakeable.

 

Isn’t there a volume control on this thing? A couple of nearby businesswomen have turned to stare and I’m so flustered that I jab at ‘Talk’ rather than ‘Ignore.’ The businesswomen are still watching me, so I put the phone to my ear and turn away. 

 

“The person you have called is not available,” I say, trying my very best to sound like a robot. “Please leave a message.” 

 

There. That’ll get rid of whoever it is. 

 

“Where the fuck _are_ you?” A smooth, educated male voice starts speaking and I squeak with astonishment. It worked! He thinks I’m an answering machine! “I’ve just been speaking with Ramsay. He has a contact he reckons he can do it. It’ll be like keyhole surgery. He’s good. There won’t be a trace.”

 

I don’t dare breath. Or scratch my nose, which is suddenly incredibly itchy. 

 

“Ok,” the man is saying “So whatever else you do, be fucking careful.” 

 

He hangs up and I stare at the phone in astonishment. I never thought anyone would actually leave a message. 

 

Now I feel a bit guilty. This is a genuine voicemail and Elaria’s missed it. I mean, it not _my_ fault she threw her phone away, but even so...On impulse, I scrabble in my bag for a pen and the only thing I’ve got to write on, which is an old theatre programme. I scribble down:

 

**_‘Ramsay has a contact; keyhole surgery, no trace, be fucking careful.’_ **

 

The Gods alone know what thats all about. Liposuction, maybe? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is, if I ever meet Elaria I can pass on the message. 

 

Before the phone can ring again, I hurry to the concierge’s desk, which has miraculously cleared. 

 

“Hi,” I say, breathlessly. “Me again. Has anyone found my ring?”

 

“May I please assure you, madam,” He says with a frosty smile, “that we would have let you know if we had found it. We _do_ have your pone number-”

 

“No, you don’t!” I butt in, almost triumphantly. “That’s the thing! The number I gave you is now...er...defunct. Out of use. Very much so.” The last think I want is him calling Hoodie Guy and mentioning a priceless emerald diamond ring. “Please don’t call it. Ever!” I try to stress the importance, ‘Can you use this number instead?” I carefully copy the phone number from the back of the Three Hounds Consulting sticker. “Actually, just to be sure, can I test it?” I reach across the concierge desk for the hotel phone and dial the printed number. A moment later Beyonce starts blasting out of the mobile phone. Ok. At last I can relax a little. I’ve got a number. 

 

I smile up at the concierge to find a horrified look on his face. “Madam, was there anything else?”

 

The concierge is starting to look quite pissed off and there’s a queue of people building up behind me. So I thank him again and move to a nearby sofa, full of adrenalin. I have a phone and I have a plan. 

 

It only takes me five minutes to write out my new number on twenty separate pieces of hotel paper with:

 

**_‘SANSA STARK - EMERALD RING, PLEASE CALL!!!!’_ **

 

To my annoyance, the doors to the ballroom are now locked (although I’m sure I can hear the cleaners still inside), so I’m forced to roam around the hotel corridors, the tea room, the ladies cloakrooms and even the spa, handing my number out to every hotel worker I come across and explaining the story.

 

I call the police and dictate my new number to them. I text Arya - whose mobile number I know off by heart - saying:

 

**_Hi! Phone stolen. This is my new number, Can you pass to everyone? Any sign of ring??_ **

 

Then I flop back on the sofa in exhaustion. I feel like I’ve been living in this hotel all day. I should phone Joffrey too, and give him this number - but I can’t face it yet. I have this irrational conviction that he’ll be able to tell just from my tone of voice that my ring is missing. He’ll sense my bare finger the minute I say “Hi”.

 

_Please come back, ring. Please, PLEASE come back..._

 

I’ve leaned back, closed my eyes and am trying to send a telepathic message through the ether. So when Beyonce starts up again, I give a startled jump. Maybe this is it! My ring! Someone has found it! I don’t even check the screen before pressing ‘talk’ and excitedly answering, “Hello?”

 

“Elaria?” A man’s voice hits my ear. Its not the same man who called before, it’s a guy with a deeper voice, more gravelly. He sounds a bit bad tempered if you could tell that just from three syllables. 

 

He’s also breathing quite heavily which means he’s either a pervert or doing some exercise. “Are you in the lobby? Are the Braavosi team still there?”

 

In an automatic reflex I look around. There’s a whole bunch of Braavosi people by the doors. 

 

“Yes, they are.” I say. “But I’m not Elaria. This isn’t Elaria’s number anymore, sorry. Perhaps you could spread the word that her number’s changed?”

 

I need to get Ellaria’s friends off my case. I can’t have them ringing m every five seconds. 

 

“Excuse me? Who is this?” The man demands. “Why are you answering this number? Where’s Ellaria?”

 

“I possess this phone,” I say, much more confidently than I feel. Which is true. And possession is nine tenths of the law...Isn’t it?

 

“You _possess_ it? What the hell are you - oh Gods.” He swears a bit more and I can hear distant footsteps. It sounds like he’s running down stairs. “Just tell me, are they leaving?”

 

“The Braavosi people?” I squint at the group. “Maybe. Can’t tell.”

 

“Is a short guy with them? Overweight? Thick hair?”

 

“Oh you mean Blue Suit? Yes, he’s right in front of me. Looks pissed off. Now he’s putting on his mac.”

 

Blue Suit has just been handed a beige Burberry mac by a colleague. He’s glowering as he puts it on, and a constant stream of angry Braavosi is coming out of his mouth, as all his friends nod nervously. 

 

“No!” The man’s exclamation down the phone takes me by surprise. “He can’t leave.”

 

“Well, he is. Sorry.”

 

“You have to stop him. Go up to him and stop him leaving the hotel. Go up to him. Now. Do whatever it takes.”

 

“What?” I stare at the phone. “Look, I’m sorry but I’ve never even met you -”

 

“Nor me you.” He cuts in. “Who are you anyway? Are you a friend of Ellaria’s? Can you tell me exactly why she decided to quite her job halfway through the biggest conference of the year? Does she think I suddenly don’t need a PA?”

 

Aha! So Ellaria is his PA. This makes sense. And she walked out on him! Well, I’m not surprised. He’s so bossy.

 

“Anyway, doesn’t matter.” He interrupts himself. “I’m on the ninth floor coming down the stairs and I’ll be there in three minutes. All you have to do is keep him there for three minutes, just untilI arrive.”

 

What a nerve.

 

“Or what?” I retort.

 

“Or else a year of careful negotiation goes down the tubes because of one ridiculous misunderstanding. The biggest deal of the year falls apart. Twenty people lose their jobs.” His voice is relentless and harsh “Senior managers, secretaries, the whole lot. All because I can’t get down the stairs quick enough and the one person who could help won’t.”

 

“Oh, all right!” I say furiously. “Whats his name?”

 

“Yamasaki.”

 

“Wait!” I yell, running across the lobby “My Yamasaki! Please? Could you wait a minute?”

 

Mr Yamasaki turns, questioningly, and a couple of flunkies more forward, flanking him protectively. He has a broad face, still creased with anger, and a wide, bullish neck, around which he’s draping a silk scarf. I get the sense he’s not into idle chit chat.

 

I have no idea what to say next. I don’t speak Braavosi. I don’t even know anything about Braavos or Braavosi culture. Apart from the fresh fish that they eat, but I can’t exactly go up to him and say “Fresh fish!” out of the blue. It would be like going up to a Dornish merchant and saying, “Sour red!”

 

“I’m...a huge fan.” I improvise. “Of your work. Could I have your autograph?” 

He looks puzzled and one of his colleagues whispers a translation into his ear. Immediately his brow clears and he bows to me. 

 

Cautiously I bow back, and he snaps his fingers, spitting out an instruction. A moment later, a beautiful leather folder has been opened for him, and he’s writing something in elaborate Braavosi. 

 

“Is he still there?” The stranger’s voice suddenly barks from the phone.

 

“Yes,” I mutter into it, “Just about. Where are you?” I shoot a bright smile at Mr Yamasaki. 

 

“Fifth floor. Keep him there. Whatever it takes.” 

 

Mr. Yamasaki hands me his piece of paper, caps his pen and makes to walk off.

 

“Wait!” I cry desperate. “Could I...show you something?”

 

“Mr Yamasaki is very busy.” One of his colleagues, wearing steel glasses and the whitest shirt I’ve ever seen, turns back to me. “Kindly contact our office.”

 

They’re heading away again. What can I do now? I can’t ask for another autograph. I can’t rugby tackle him to the floor. I need to attract his attention somehow...

 

“I have a special announcement to make!” I exclaim, hurrying after them. “I am a singing telegram! I bear a message from all Mr Yamasaki’s many fans. It would be a great discourtesy to them if you were to refuse me.”

 

The word ‘discourtesy’ seems to have stopped them in their tracks. They’re frowning and exchanging confused glances. 

 

“A singing telegram? asks the man in steel glasses suspiciously.

 

“Like a Gorillagram?” I offer “Only singing.” I’m not sure it’s made things any clearer. 

 

The interpreter is whispering furiously into Mr Yamasaki’s ear, and after a moment instructs me, “You may present.”

 

Mr Yamasaki turns around, and all his colleagues follow suit, folding their arms expectantly and lining up in a row. Around the lobby I can see a few interested glances from other groups of business people.

 

“Where are you?” I mutter desperately into the phone.

 

“Third floor,” comes the man’s gravel voice after a moment. “Half a minute. Do’t lose him.”

 

“Begin,” says the man in steel spectacles pointedly.

 

Some other hotel guests in the lobby have stopped to watch. Oh Gods. How did I get myself into this? Number one, as much as I love singing, I can’t hold a note. Number two, what do I sing to a Braavosi businessman I’ve never met before?! Number three, _why_ did I say singing telegram?

 

But if I don’t do something soon, twenty people might lose their jobs. 

 

I make a deep bow, just to spin out some more time and all the Braavosi bow back.

 

“ _Begin_.” repeats the man in steel spectacles, his eyes glinting ominously. 

 

I take a deep breath. Come on. It doesn’t matter what I do. I only have to last 30 seconds. Then i can run away and they’ll never see me again.

 

“Mr Yamasaki...” I begin cautiously, to the tune of ‘Single Ladies’ “Mr Yamasaki. Mr Yamasaki, Mr Yamasaki.” I shimmy my hips and shake my shoulders at him, just like a red headed Beyonce. “Mr Yamasaki, Mr Yamasaki.”

 

Actually, this is quite easy. I don’t need any lyrics. I can just keep singing “Mr Yamasaki,” over and over. After a few moments, some of the Braavosi even start singing along, and clapping Mr Yamasaki on the back. 

 

“Mr Yamasaki, Mr Yamasaki. Mr Yamasaki, Mr Yamasaki.” I lift my finger and waggle it at him with a wink. “Ooh-ooh-ooh...ooh-ooh-ooh...”

 

This song is ridiculously catchy. All the Braavosi are singing now, apart from Mr Yamasaki, who’s standing there looking delighted. Some delegates nearby have joined in with the singing and I can hear one of them ask “Is this a flash mob thing?”

 

“Mr Yamasaki. Mr Yamasaki, Mr Yamasaki...Where _are_ you? I mutter into the phone, still beaming brightly. 

 

“Watching.”

 

“ _What_?” My head jerks up and my eyes sweep the lobby.

 

My gaze suddenly fixes on a man standing alone, about thirty yards away. He’s wearing a dark suit and has thick hair, so dark its almost black, brushed neatly to one side, half covering the most horrific scarring I’ve ever seen. He’s holding a phone to his ear and even from this far away I can see the laughter in his eyes. He’s so tall his head and shoulders are visible above the rest of the crowd. 

 

“How long have you been there?” I demand furiously.

 

“Just arrived. Didn’t want to interrupt. Great job, by the way.” He adds. “I think you’ve won Mr Yamasaki over.”

 

“Thanks,” I say sarcastically. “Glad I could help. He’s all yours.” I bow to Mr Yamasaki with a flourish, then turn sharply on my heel and head swiftly towards the exit, ignoring the disappointed cries of the Braavosi, I’ve got more important things to worry about that arrogant strangers and their stupid business deals.

 

“Wait!” The man’s rumble of a voice follows me through the receiver. “That phone. Its my PA’s.”

 

“Well she shouldn’t have thrown it away then,” I retort, pushing the glass doors open. “Finders keepers.” 

 

 

There are twelve stops from Visenya’s Hill to the Red Keep, where Joffrey’s parents live. As soon as I resurface from the subwaycheck the phone. Its flashing with new messages - ten texts and twenty emails - but there are only five texts for me and none about the ring. One’s from the police and my heart leaps with hope - but it’s only to confirm that I’ve filed a report and asking if I want a visit from a Victim Support Officer. 

 

The rest are all text messages and emails for Ellaria. As I scroll don them, I notice ‘Sandor’ features in the subject heading of quite a few of the emails. Feeling like Poirot again, I check back on the ‘Numbers Called’ function, and sure enough, the last number that called this phone was ‘Sandor Mobile.’ So that’s him. Ellaria’s boss. Tall, Dark and Scarred Guy. And to prove it, her email address is [sandorcleganepa@threehounds.ws](mailto:sandorcleganepa@threehounds.ws)

 

Just out of the mildest curiosity, I click on one of the emails. It’s from [alyswaters@targ.net](mailto:alyswaters@targ.net) and the subject is ‘Re: Dinner?’

 

**_Thanks, Ellaria. I’d appreciate you not mentioning any of this to Sandor. I feel a little embarrassed now!_ **

 

Ooh. What’s she embarrassed about? Before I can stop myself, I’ve scrolled down to read the previous email, which was sent yesterday.

 

**_Actually Alys, you should know something: Sandor’s engaged._ **

 

**_Best, Ellaria._ **

 

He’s engaged. Interesting. As I read the words over and over I feel a strange little reaction inside which I can’t quite place. Surprise?

 

Although why should I be surprised? I don’t even know the man. 

 

Ok, now I _have_ to know the whole story. Why is Alys embarrassed? What happened? I scroll further still and find a long introductory email from Alys, who has clearly met Sandor Clegane at a business function, got the hots for him and invited him to dinner two weeks ago, but he hasn’t returned her calls.

 

**_...tried again yesterday...maybe using the wrong number...someone told me he is notorious and that his PA is always the best route to contact him...very sorry to bother you...possibly just let me know either way._ **

 

Poor woman. I feel quite indignant on her behalf. Why didn’t he reply? How hard is it to send a quick email saying ‘No thanks.’ And then it turns out he’s engaged, for Gods sake. 

 

Anyway, whatever. I suddenly realise I’m snooping in someone else’s inbox, when I have a lot of other, more important things to be thinking about. _Priorities, Sansa_. I need to buy some wine for Joffrey’s parents. And a ‘welcome home’ card. And if I don’t track down the ring in twenty minute...some gloves. 

 

Disaster. _Absolute disaster_. It turns out the don’t sell gloves in April. The only ones I could find were from the back room in Accessorize. Old Sevenmas stock, only available in size small.

I cannot believe I’m seriously planning to greet my prospective in-laws in too-tight red wooly reindeer gloves. With tassels. 

But I have no choice. It’s that, or walk in bare-handed. 

 

As I start the long climb up the hill to the Red Keep I’m starting to feel seriously sick. It’s not just the ring. It’s the whole scary prospective in-laws thing. I turn the corner and like always, my breath is stolen from me at the sight of their ‘home.’ Castle is more accurate. 

 

And still I’ve never known a home that suits its occupants more. It’s old and grand, the biggest probably in all the seven kingdoms and looks down on the city from its superior position. 

 

It’s huge and red with tall, spindly turrets. Sailing into the bay from across the sea the Red Keep looks like a crown, raising tall and proud. Inside is full of antiques and furniture that looks beautiful but using it runs the risk of breaking it. They only use certain parts of the property now, other parts crumbling and decaying away. One time I even found a fossilized boiled egg in a spare room bed, still in its eggcup, with a desiccated toast soldier. It must have been at least a year old. 

 

And everywhere, all over the house, are books. Stacked up in corners, strewn across tables and on every side of the huge old clawfoot bath tub. Joffrey’s family are very into books. History books to be exact. History books about notable figures in their own family. They were obsessed with proving their ancient royal blood line. Which was all well and good, but it does make you feel just the teeny, tiniest bit inadequate. 

 

Don’t get me wrong, I think I’m pretty intelligent. You know, for a normal person who went to school and college and got a job and everything. But these aren’t normal people, they’re in a different league. They have super brains. 

 

I’ve only met Joff’s family a few times when they were in town for civic events, but it was long enough for Cersei to get out her family tree and list off the full details of her family’s past achievements and accolades and for Robert to lecture me on how Baratheons evolved from the Old Gods of War. 

 

I’ve been introduced to quite a few different boyfriend’s parents over the years, but hands sown, this was the worst experience. We’d just shaken hands and made quite a bit of small talk and I was telling Cersei, quite proudly, where I’d been to college, when Robert looked up over his large ale glass, with those bright, cold eyes of his, and said, “A degree in physiotherapy. How amusing.” I felt instantly crushed. I didn’t know what to say. In fact, I was so flustered that I left the room to use the loo. 

 

After that, of course, I froze. Those three days were sheer misery. The more intellectual the conversation became, the more tongue-tied and awkward I became. My second worst moment: pronouncing ‘Proust’ wrong and everyone exchanging looks. My very worst moment: watching university challenge all together in the great room, when a section on bones came up. My subject! I studied this! I know all the Old Valaryan names and everything! But as I was drawing breath to answer the first question, Robert has already given the correct answer. I was quicker next time - but he still beat me. The whole thing was like a race, and he won. Then at the end, Cersei looked over at me and questioned, with concern, “Do they not teach anatomy at physiotherapy school, Sansa?” and I was just _mortified_. 

 

Joff says he loves _me_ , not my brain, and that I’ve just got to ignore his parents. And Arya just said think of the rock and villa in Lys and beach house in Dorne. Whereas my own approach has been as follows: just don’t think about them. It’s been fine. They’ve been safely in Braavos, thousands of miles away across the Narrow Sea.

 

But now they’re back.

 

Oh Gods. And I’m still a bit shaky on ‘Proust’ (Proost? Prost? Prowst?) And I didn’t revise Old Valyrian names for bones. And I’m wearing red woolly reindeer gloves in April. With tassels.

 

My legs are shaking as I enter they foyer and wait for the maid to announce me. Actually shaking. I feel like the scarecrow from Wizard of Oz and any minute now I’ll collapse on the floor and Cersei will arrive with her green face and black pointy hat and set me on fire for losing the ring. 

 

Stop, Sansa. Just calm down. Everything will be fine. No one will suspect anything. My story is, I burned my hand. Thats my story. 

 

“Hi Sansa!”

“Tommen! Hi!” 

 

I’m so relieved it’s Tommen. He’s the baby of the family - only seventeen and still at school. In fact, Joff has been living with Tommen while his parents have been away, as a kind of babysitter, and I moved in after we got engaged. Not that Tommen needs a babysitter. He’s completely self contained, reads all the time and you never know he’s home. I once tried to give him a friendly little ‘drugs chat’. He politely corrected me on every single fact, then said he’d noticed I drank above the recommended limit of Red Bull and did I think I might have an addiction. That was the last tim eI tried to act older sister. 

 

Anyway. That’s all come to an end now Robert and Cersei are back. I’ve moved back to my flat and we’re looking for somewhere to rent together. Joff was all for staying in the Red Keep and carry on using the spare bedroom and bathroom on the top floor of the Maiden’s Tower. 

 

Is he nuts? There is _no way_ I am living under the same roof as Robert and Cersei. 

 

I follow Tommen into the huge dining room, where Joffrey is lounging on a day chair, gesturing at a page of typescript and saying, “I think you’ve gone wrong here. Second paragraph.”

 

However Joff sits, whatever he does, he somehow manages to look elegant. His suede-brogued feet are up on another chair, and he’s halfway through a cigarette and his golden hair is thrown back off his brow like a waterfall. He’s beautiful.

 

Cersei and all her children have the same colouring, like a family of golden statues, but Joff is the best looking of them all, and I’m not just saying that because I’m marrying him. His skin tans easily and his lustrous hair is like something out of a hair ad. Thats why he keeps it long. He’s actually really quite vain about it. 

 

Plus, although he’s academic, he’s not just some fusty guy who sits inside reading books all day. He skis really well, better than even me and I grew up in the snowy North. That’s how we met actually. He’d sprained his wrist skiing and came in for physio, after his family doctor recommended us. He was supposed to be seeing Mya but she switched him for one of her regulars and he ended up with me instead. The next week he asked me out on a date, and after amonth, he proposed. A month!

 

Now Joff looks up and his face brightens. “Sweetlling! How is my beautiful girl? Come here.” He beckons me over for and kiss, then frames my face with his hands, like he always does. 

 

“Hi!” I force a smile. “So, are you your parents here? How was their journey? I can’t _wait_ to see them.”

 

I’m trying to sound as keen as I can, even though my legs are wanting to run away, back out of the door and all the way down the hill. 

 

“Didn’t you get my text?” Joff seems puzzle. 

 

“What text? _Oh_!” I suddenly realise. “Of course. I lost my phone. I’ve got a new number, here, I’ll give it to you.”

 

“You lost your phone?” Joff stares at me. “What happened?”

 

“Nothing!” I say brightly. “Just...lost it and had to get a new one. No biggie. No drama.”

 

I’ve decided on a general policy that the less I say to Joff right now, the better. I don’t want to get into any discussions as to why I might be clinging so desperately to some random phone I pulled out of a bin. 

 

“So, what did your text say?” I quickly add, trying to move the conversation on. 

 

“My parent’s diverted their ship. They’re going to visit my father’s brother at Storms End. They won’t be back until tomorrow.”

 

Diverted? 

Storms End?

Oh my Gods, I’m safe! I’m reprieved! My legs can stop wobbling! 

 

“Oh,” I try to hard to twist my face into an expression of sympathy. “I was _really_ looking forward to seeing them. I know you were too.”

 

I _think_ I sound pretty convincing. Tommen shoots me an odd look, but Joff has already picked up the paper again. He hasn’t commented on my gloves. Nor has Tommen. Maybe I can relax a notch. 

 

Tommen and Joff said they were going to clean up this afternoon, but the place is like a bomb site. There are takeaway boxes on the kitchen table and a stack of books on top of the stove and even one in a saucepan. “Your parents will be back tomorrow. Shouldn’t we do something?”

 

Joff looked unmoved. “They won’t care.” 

It’a all very well for him to say that. But _I’m_ the daughter-in-law (nearly) who’s been living here and will get the blame. 

 

Joff and Tommen have begun talking about some footnote, so I head over to the hob and start a quick tidy up. I don’t dare remove my gloves, but the boys aren’t giving me the slightest glance, thankfully. At least I know the rest of the property is okay. I went over the whole place yesterday, replaced all the manky old bottles of bubble bath and got a new blind for the bathroom. Best of all, I tracked down some anemones for Cersei’s study. Everyone knows she loves anemones.

 

Joff and Tommen are still engrossed as I finish. The house is tidy. No one’s asked me about the ring. So I’ll quit while I’m ahead.

 

“So I’ll be off home,” I say casually and drop a kiss on Joff’s head. “You stay here, keep Tommen company. Say welcome back to your parents from me.”

 

“Stay the night!” Joff sweeps an arm around my waist and pulls me back. “They’ll want to see you.”

 

I don’t believe him for a second. 

 

“No, you welcome them. I’ll catch up tomorrow.” I smile brightly to distract attention from the fact that I’m edging towards the door, my hands behind my back. “Plenty of time.”

 

“I don’t blame you,” Tommen says, looking up from the typescript and blinking at me. 

 

“Sorry?”’ I say, a bit puzzled. “Don’t blame me for what?” 

 

“Not sticking around.” He shrugs. “I think you’re being remarkably sanguine, given their reaction. I’ve been meaning to say so for weeks. You must be a very good person, Sansa.”

 

What’s he talking about?

 

“I don’t know...What do you mean?” I turn to Joff for help. 

 

“It’s nothing,” he says too quickly. But Tommen is staring at his older brother, a light dawning in his eyes.

 

“Oh my Gods. You didn’t tell her?”

 

“Tommen. Shut up,”

 

“You didn’t, did you? That’s not exactly fair, is it?”

 

“Tell me what?” I’m turning from one face to the other. “What?”

 

“It’s nothing.” Joff sounds rattled. “Just...” He finally meets my eyes. “Okay. My parents weren’t exactly wild to hear we’re engaged. That’s all.”

 

For a moment I don’t know how to react. I stare at him dumbly, trying to process what I just heard. 

 

“But...You said...” I don’t quite trust my voice. “You said they were thrilled. You said they were excited!”

 

“They will be thrilled, “ he says crossly. “When they see sense.”

 

They _will_ be?

 

My whole world is wobbling. It was bad enough when I thought Joff’s parents were just intimidating drunks. But all this time they’ve been _against us getting married?_

 

“You told me they said they couldn’t imagine a sweeter, more charing daughter-in-law.” I’m trembling all over now. “You said they sent me special love, all the way from Braavos. Was all that _lies_?”

 

“I didn’t want to upset you!” Joff glares at Tommen. “Look, it’s no big deal. They’ll come around. They simply think it’s all a bit fast...They don’t know you properly...They’re idiots.” He ends with a childish scowl. “I told them so.”

 

“You had an argument with your parents?” I stare at him, dismayed. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” 

 

“It wasn’t a row,” he says defensively. “It was more...a falling out.”

 

A falling out? _A falling out?_

 

“A falling out is worse than an argument!” I wail in horror. “It’s a million times worse. Oh Gods! I wish you’d told me...What am I going to do? How can I face them?”

 

I knew it. Robert and Cersei don’t think I’m good enough for their little prince. I’m like that girl in the opera who relinquishes her lover because she’s too unsuitable and then gets TB and dies and good thing too, since she was so inferior and stupid. She probably couldn’t pronounce ‘Proust’ either. 

 

“Sansa, calm down!” Joffrey says irritably. He gets to his feet and takes me firmly by the shoulders. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you. It’s family nonsense and it’s got nothing to do with us. I love you. We’re getting married. I’m going to do this and I’m going to see it through whatever anyone else says, whether its my parents or my friends or anyone else. This is about us.” His voice is so firm, I start to relax. “And anyway. As soon as they spend some time with you, my parents will come round. I know it.”

 

I can’t help giving a reluctant smile. 

 

“That’s my beautiful girl.” Joff gives me a tight hug and I claps him back, trying as hard as I can to believe him. 

 

As he draws away, his gaze falls on my gloves and he frowns, looking puzzled. “Sweets...why are you wearing gloves?”

 

I’m going to have a nervous breakdown. I really am.

 

The whole ring debacle nearly came out. It would have done if it weren’t for Tommen. I was half way through my ludicrous, stumbling, hand burning excuse, expecting Joff to become suspicious at any moment, when Tommen yawned and said “Shall we get something to eat?” and Joffrey suddenly remembered an email he had to send first and everyone forgot about my gloves. 

 

And I chose that opportunity to leave. Very quickly. 

 

Now I’m sitting on the subway, back to my flat in River Row, staring out at the dark black underground tunnels that link the city together. I feel cold inside. I’ve lost the ring. Fat old Robert and Cersei don’t want me to marry Joffrey. My phone is gone. I feel like all my security blankets have been snatched, all at once. 

 

The phone in my pocket starts to play Beyonce again and I haul it out without any great hope. 

 

Sure enough, its not any of my friends calling to say “Guess what?! Found it!” Nor the police, nor the hotel concierge. It’s him. Sandor Clegane. 

 

“You ran off,” he says, without preamble. “I need that phone back. Where are you?”

 

Charming. Not even “Thank you so much for helping me with my Braavosi business deal.”

 

“You’re welcome.” I say. “Any time.”

 

“Oh.” He sounded momentarily discomfited. “Right. Thanks. I owe you one. Now, how are you going to get the phone back to me? You could drop it round at the office, or I could send a bike. Where are you?”

 

I’m silent. I’m not going to get it back to him. I need this number.

 

“Hello?”

 

I consider making static noises and hanging up.

 

“Hi,” I say instead, clutching the phone more tightly and swallowing hard. “The thing is, I need to borrow the phone. Just for a bit.”

 

“Fucks sake.” I can hear him exhale. “Look, I’m afraid it’s not available for borrowing. It’s company property and I need it back. Or by ‘borrow’ do you actually mean ‘steal’? Because believe me, I _can_ track you down and I’m not paying you a hundred dragons for the pleasure.”

 

Isthat what he thinks? That I’m after money? That I’m some kind of phone-napper?

 

“I don’t want to _steal_ it!” I exclaim indignantly. “I just need it for a few days. I’ve given the number out to everyone, and it’s a real emergency.”

 

“You did _what_?” He sounds baffled. I can imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose, he totally seems like a Type A. “Why would you do that?”

 

“I lost my engagement ring.” I can hardly bear to say it out loud. “It’s really old and valuable. And then my phone was stolen and I was absolutely desperate and then I passed this litter bin and there it was. In the _bin_ ,” I add for emphasis. “Your PA just chucked it away. Once an item lands in the bin it belongs to the public, you know. Anyone can claim it.”

 

“Bullshit.” He retorts. “Who told you that?”

 

“It’s...It’s common knowledge.” I try to sound robust. “Anyway, why did your PA walk out and chuck her phone away. Not much of a PA if you ask me.”

 

“No. Not much of a PA. More of a friend’s daughter who should have never been given the job.”

 

“Or, you’re a terrible boss.” Oh my Gods. Why did I say that. 

 

Another exhale before he answers. “She landed a modelling contract at exactly midday today or some shit. By one minute past, she’d left. Didn’t even bother telling me she’d gone. I had to find out from one of the other PAs.” He sounded pretty pissed off. “Listen, Miss...What’s your name?”

 

“Stark. Sansa Stark.”

 

“Well, enough kidding around Miss Stark. I’m sorry about your ring. I hope it turns up. But this phone isn’t some fun accessory you can purloin for your own ends. This is a company phone with business messages coming in all the time. Emails. Important stuff. My PA runs my life. I _need_ those messages.”

 

“I’ll forward them.” I hastily offer. “I’ll forward everything. How about that?”

 

“What the-” He mutters something under his breath. “OK. You win. I’ll buy you a new phone. What’s your address, I’ll have a bike bring it over-”

 

“I need _this_ one.” I say stubbornly. “I need this number,”

 

“For fucks sake-”

 

“My plan can work!” My words tumble out in a rush. “Everything that comes in, I’ll send to you straight away. You wont know the difference! I mean, you’d have to do that anyway, wouldn’t you? If you’ve lost your PA then what good is a PA’s phone? This way is _better_! Plus you owe me for stopping Mr Yamasaki.” I can’t help pointing out. “You literally just said so yourself.”

 

“That _isn’t_ what I meant, and you know it.”

 

“You won’t miss anything, I promise!” I interrupt to cut off his irritable snarl. “I’ll forward every single message. Look I’ll show you. Just give me two seconds.”

 

I hang up, scroll down all the messages that have arrived on the phone since this morning and quickly forward them, one by one, to Sandor’s mobile number. My fingers are working like lightening.

 

Text from ‘Dany Targaryen’ : forwarded. Text from ‘Sir Beric Dondarrian’: forwarded. It’s a matter of seconds to forward them all on. And the emails can all go to [sandorclegane@threehounds.ws](mailto:sandorclegane@threehounds.ws)

 

Email from ‘HR Department’: forwarded. Email from ‘Jon Snow’: forwarded. Email from ‘Dad’ -

 

I hesitate a moment. I need to be careful here. Is this Ellaria’s dad or Sandor’s dad? The address at the top of the email is [davos452@westerosmail.com](mailto:davos452@westerosmail.com) which doesn’t really help. 

 

Telling myself it’s all in a good cause, I scroll down to have a quick look.

 

 

**_Dear Sandor,_ **

 

**_It’s been a long time. I think of you often, wondering what you’re up to, and would love to chat some time. Did you ever get any of my phone messages? Don’t worry, I know you’re a busy fellow._ **

 

**_If you are ever in the neighbourhood, you know you can always drop by. There is a little matter I’d like to raise with you - quite exciting actually - but as I say, no hurry._ **

 

**_Yours ever_ **

**_Dad._ **

 

 

As I get to the end I feel a bit shocked. I know this guy is a stranger and this is none of my business. But honestly. You’d think he could reply to his own father’s phone messages. How hard is it to spare half an hour for a chat? And his dad sounds so sweet and humble. Poor old man, having to email his own son’s PA. I feel like replying to him myself. I feel like visiting him, in his cosy little cottage.

 

Anyway. Whatever. Not my life. I press Forward and the email goes zooming off, with all the others. A moment later Beyonce starts singing. It’s Sandor again. 

 

“When, exactly, did Sir Beric Dondarrian text Ellaria?” He barks out abruptly. 

 

“Er,,,” I peer at the phone. “About four hours ago.” The first we words of the text are displayed on the screen, so there’s no great harm in clicking on it and reading the rest, is there? Not that it’s very interesting. 

 

 

**_Ellaria. Please ask Sandor to call me. His phone is switched off. Best. Beric._ **

 

 

“Shit. _Fuck_!” Sandor’s silent for a moment. “OK, if he texts again, you let me know straight away, OK? Ring me.”

 

I open my mouth automatically to say, “What about your dad? Why don’t you ever ring _him_?” Then I close it again. No, Sansa. _Bad_ idea. 

 

“Ooh, there was a phone message earlier,” I suddenly remember. “About liposuction or something. That wasn’t for you?”

 

“ _Liposuction_? He echoes incredulously. “I’m not aware that I need liposuction.” Was that a trace of amusement in his voice?

 

He doesn’t need to sound so scoffing. I was only asking. It must have been for Ellaria. Not that she’s likely to need liposuction if she’s off modelling. 

 

“So...we’re on? We have a deal?”

 

For a long minute he doesn’t reply and I have an image of him glowering at his phone. I don’t exactly get the feeling he’s relishing the arrangement, but then again, what choice does he have?

 

“I’ll get the PA email address transferred back to me tomorrow,” he says grouchily. I’ll speak to the IT guys in the morning. But the texts will keep coming to you. If I miss any of them-”

 

“You won’t! Look, I know this isn’t ideal,” I say, trying to mollify him. “And I’m sorry. But I’m really desperate. All the hotel staff have this number..and all the cleaners...it’s my only hope. Just for a couple of days. And I promise I’ll send every single message on. Brownies honour.”

 

“Brownies _what_?” He sounds mystified.

 

“Honour! You know - Brownies? Guides? Like Scouts? You hold up one hand and you make the sign and you swear an oath...Hang on, I’ll show you.”

 

I hang up. There’s a sheet of grimy mirror opposite me on the carriage. I pose in front of it, making the gesture with one hand and holding the phone in the other, wearing my best “I’m a sane person” smile. I snap a photo and and it to Sandor Mobile. 

 

Five seconds later a text pings back.

 

**_I could send this to the police and have you arrested._ **

 

I feel a whoosh of relief. _Could_. That means he’s not going to. I text back. 

 

**_I really, really, really appreciate it! Thanks!!! :) :) :)_ **

 

But theres no reply back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only thing that's my own are my typos! :-)

The next morning I wake suddenly to see the phone flashing with a new text from the Berrow Hotel, and feel so relieved I almost want to cry. They found it! They found it!

 

My fingers are fumbling as I unlock the phone; my mind galloping ahead. An early morning cleaner found the ring clogging up a Hoover...discovered it in the cloakroom...saw a glint on the carpet...and now it’s securely locked in the hotel safe...

 

 

**_Dear Guest,_ **

 

**_Summer breaks are how HALF PRICE! Please visit_ ** [ **_www.berrowhotel_ ** **_kingslanding.ws for full details, terms and conditions._ ** ](http://www.berrowhotel)

 

**_Kind regards,_ **

 

**_The Berrow Hotel_ **

 

 

I sag on the bed, leaden with disappointment. Not to mention anger at whoever signed me up to the mailing list. How could they do that? Are they _trying_ to play with my neuroses? 

 

At the same time, a nasty realisation is turning round and round in my stomach. Another eight hours have passed since I lost the ring. The longer it’s not found-

 

What if-

 

I can’t even finish the thought, its just too _awful_. Abruptly I get out of bed and pad through to the kitchen. I’ll make a cup of tea and send on some more messages to Sandor Clegane. That’ll take my mind off things.

 

The phone has started buzzing again with texts and emails, so when I turn on the kettle, perch on the window seat and start scrolling through, trying desperately not to hope. Sure enough, every message is just some friend asking if I’ve found the ring yet and making suggestions like have I checked my handbag pockets?

 

There’s nothing from Joff, even though I sent him a couple of texts last night, asking what else his parents had said about me and when was he planning to tell me and how was I going to face them now, and was he ignoring me on purpose? Oh alright, it wasn’t a couple of texts, it was nine. But I only sent six of them.

 

At last I turn to Sandor’s messages. He clearly hasn’t had the emails transferred to his inbox yet, because there are about fifty, just from over night and this morning. He was right. His PA evidently _does_ handle his whole life. 

 

There’s everything and everyone in here. His doctor, colleagues, charity requests, invitations...its like a mainline into the universe of Sandor. I can see where he buys his shirts (Street of Silk). I can see where he went for dinner last Thursday (a Yunkai takeout). I can see the name of his plumber (Gendry).

 

As I scroll further and further down, I start to feel uncomfortable. I’ve never had so much access to someone else’s phone before. Not my friends; not even Joff. There are some things you just don’t share. I mean, Joffrey has seen every inch of my body - even the wobbly bits - but I would never, _ever_ , let him near my phone. 

 

Sandor’s messages are randomly mixed up with mine, which feels weird too. I scroll down two messages for me, then about six for Sandor, then another one for me. All side by side; touching each other. Ive never shared my inbox with anyone else in my life. I didn’t expect it to feel so...intimate. It’s as if we’re suddenly sharing an underwear drawer or something. 

 

Anyway. No big deal. It’s not for long.

 

I make my tea and fill a bowl with Shreddies. Then, as I munch, I slowly pick through the messages, working out which ones are for Sandor and forwarding them on. 

 

I’m not going to _spy_ on him or anything. Obviously not. But I have to click on each one to forward it and sometimes my fingers automatically click open by mistake and I catch a glimpse of the text. Just sometimes. 

 

Clearly it’s not just his father who’s having a hard time getting in touch with him. He must be really, _really_ bad at answering emails and texts; there are so many plaintive requests to Ellaria; “Is this a good way to reach Sandor?” “Hi! Apologies for bothering you but I have left several messages for Sandor...” “Hi Ellaria, could you nudge Sandor about an email I sent last week?” 

 

It’s not like I’m reading through every single email _fully_ or anything. Or scrolling down to read all the previous correspondence. Or critiquing his answers and re-writing them in my head. After all, it’s none of my business what he writes or doesn’t write. He can do what he likes. It’s a free country. My opinion is neither here nor there- 

 

Gods! His replies are so abrupt! It’s driving me insane. Does everything _have_ to be so short? Does he have to be so curt and unfriendly? As I spot yet another brief email I can’t help exclaiming out loud, “Are you allergic to typing, or something?”

 

It’s ridiculous. It’s like he’s determined to use the fewest possible words:

 

 

**_Yes, fine. Sandor_ **

 

**_Done. Sandor_ **

 

**_OK. Sandor_ **

 

 

Would it kill him to add “Best wishes” or a smiley face? Or say thank you?

 

And while I’m on the subject, why can’t he just _reply_ to people? Poor Ygritte is trying to organise an office fun run and has asked him twice now if he could lead a team. Why wouldn’t he want to do that? It’s fun, it’s healthy, it’s not as if he couldn’t - he looked in better shape than any man I’ve come across, from the brief glimpse I got of him in the hotel lobby.

 

Nor has he replied about accommodation for the company conference in High Garden next week. It’s at this amazing looking country house - it look’s similar to Robert and Cersei’s but in much better condition, all gold and rose motif-ed. He;s booked into a suite, but he has to specify to someone called Eryn whether he’s still planning to come down late. And he hasn’t.

 

Worst of all, his dentist receptionist has emailed him about making an appointment for a check up four times. _Four times_. 

 

I can’t help glancing back at the previous correspondence, and Ellaria’s obviously given up trying. Each time she’s made an appointment, he’s emailed her, “Cancel it. S”, and even once, “You have to be joking,”

 

Does he _want_ his teeth to rot?

 

By the time I’m leaving for work at 8.40, a whole new series of emails has arrived. Obviously these people all start work at the crack of dawn. The top one is from Tormund Giantsbain with the subject title “What’s the story?” which sounds quite intriguing, so as I’m walking along the street, I open in. 

 

**_Sandor,_ **

 

**_Ran into Ramsay at the Wildling Club last night, looking worse for wear. All I’ll say is, don’t let him near Sir Beric any time soon, will you?_ **

 

**_Best, Tor._ **

 

Ooh, now I want to know the whole story too. Who’s Ramsay? Why was he worse for wear at the Wilding Club?

 

The second email is from someone called Ros. 

 

**_Ellaria._ **

 

**_Let’s be grown-ups about this. You’ve HEARD Sandor and me fighting. There’s no point hiding anything from you._ **

 

**_So, since Sandor REFUSES to answer the email I sent half an hour ago, maybe you could be so kind as to print this attachment out and PUT IT ON HIS DESK SO HE READS IT?_ **

 

**_Thanks so much._ **

**_Ros._ **

 

 

I stare at the phone in shock, almost wanting to laugh. Ros must be his fiancee. Wow. 

 

Her email address is [RosSnow@threehounds.ws](mailto:RosSnow@threehounds.ws). So, she obviously works at Three Hounds Consulting, but she’s still emailing Sandor? Isn’t that odd? Unless maybe they work on different floors. Fair enough. I once emailed Joff from upstairs to ask him to make me a cup of tea.

 

I wonder what’s in the attachment.

 

My fingers hesitate as I pause at a pedestrian crossing. It would be wring to read it. Very, very wrong. I mean, this isn’t some open email cc-ed to loads of people. This is a private document between two people in a relationship. I _shouldn’t_ look at it. It was bad enough reading that email from his father. 

 

But on the other hand...she wants it printed out, doesn’t she? And put on Sandor’s desk, where anyone could read it if they walked by. And it’s not like I’m _indiscreet_. I won’t even mention this to anyone; no one would know I’ve seen it.

 

Before I can make a decision either way, the pedestrian light changes to green and the tall, pushy businessman benhind me jostles me forward and my thumb, hovering over the ‘open’ button presses down and the text pops up on the screen. Before I’ve even let out a delighted gasp, my eyes have focussed on the text, and it’s so heavy with capital letters.

 

**_Sandor_ **

 

**_You still haven’t answered me. Are you intending to? Do you think this is NOT IMPORTANT?????!!!!!_ **

 

**_Gods._ **

 

**_It’s only the most important thing IN OUR LIFE. And how you can go about your day so CALMLY....I don’t know. It makes me want to weep._ **

 

**_We need to talk, so, so badly. And I know some of this is my fault. but until we start untying the knots TOGETHER, how will we know who’s pulling which string? How?_ **

 

**_The thing is Sandor, sometimes I don’t even know if you have a string. It’s that bad. I DON’T KNOW IF YOU HAVE A STRING._ **

 

**_I can see you shaking your head, Mr. Denial. But it is. It’s THAT BAD, OK???_ **

 

**_If you were a human being with a shred of emotion, you’d be crying by now. I know I am, And another thing, I have a ten o’clock with Carter which you have now FUCKED UP as I left my FUCKING MASCARA at home._ **

 

**_So, be proud of yourself._ **

**_Ros._ **

 

 

My eyes are like saucers. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. 

 

I read it over again - and suddenly find myself giggling. I know I shouldn’t It’s not funny. She’s obviously really upset. And I know I’ve said some pretty awful things to Joffrey when I’ve been pissed or hormonal. But I would never, _ever_ put them in an email and get his assistant to print it out...

 

My head suddenly bobs up in realisation. Crap! There’s no Ellaria anymore. No one’s going to print it out and put it on his desk. Sandor won’t know about it and he won’t reply and Ros will get even more livid. The awful thing is, this thought wants to make me giggle even more. 

 

I wonder if this is a bad day or if she’s always this intense. I can’t resist typing “Ros” into the search bar, and a whole series of emails pop up. There’s one from yesterday, with the titled “Are you trying to fuck me, or fuck WITH me, Sandor? OR CAN’T YOU DECIDE???” and I get another fit of giggles. Yikes. They must have one of those up-and-down relationships. maybe throw things at each other and shriek and then have crazy passionate sex in the kitchen-

 

Beyonce suddenly blasts out from the phone and I nearly drop it as I see “Sandor Mobile” appear on the screen. I have a sudden mad thought that he’s psychic and he knows I’ve been imagining his sex life. I can feel my cheeks pinken and I’m glad it’s not a video call. 

 

_No more snooping_ , I hastily promise myself. No more Ros searches. I count to three, then press ‘Talk’.

 

“Oh, hi there!” I try and sound relaxed and guiltless, like I was just thinking about something else altogether and not at all imagining him screwing his finance among a pile of broken crockery. 

 

“Did I have an email from Ned Reed this morning?” He launches in without even saying hi. 

 

“No. I’ve sent all your emails over. Good morning to you, too.” I add brightly. “I’m really well. How about you?”

 

“I thought you might have missed one.” He completely ignores my little dig. “It’s extremely important.”

 

“And I’m extremely thorough.” I retort pointedly. “Believe me, everything that’s coming through to this phone, you’re getting. And there wasn’t anything from anyone named Ned Reed. Someone called Ros just emailed you, by the way.” I add casually. “I’ll forward it on. There’s an attachment, which sounded quite important. But obviously I didn’t look at it at all. Or read it, or anything.”

 

“Humpph.” He gives a kind of non-committal growl. “So have you found your ring?”

 

“Not yet,” I admin reluctantly. “But I’m sure it will turn up.”

 

“You should inform your insurers anyway. They sometimes have a time limit for claiming. Friend of mine got screwed over that way.”

 

Insurers? Time limits?

 

I suddenly feel clammy with guilt. I’ve given this no thought at all. I haven’t checked up on my insurance or Joffrey’s family insurance or anything. Instead I’ve been standing at a pedestrian crossing, missing my chance to walk, reading other peoples emails and laughing at them. _Priorities_ , Sansa.

 

“Right,” I manage at last. “Yes. I knew that. I’m on it.”

 

I hang up and stand motionless for a moment, the traffic once again whizzing in front of me. It’s like he’s pricked my bubble. I have to come clean. It’s Joffrey’s _family_ ring. They should know it’s lost. I have to tell them. 

 

_Hi there! It’s me, the girl you don’t want your son to marry, and guess what, I’ve lost your priceless family ring!_

 

I’ll give myself twelve more hours, I abruptly decide, and press the crossing button again. Just in cast. _Just_ in case.

 

And then I’ll tell them. 

 

 

I always thought I might be a dentist. Several of my family are dentists, and it always seemed like a pretty decent career. But then, when I was fifteen, my school sent me on a week long work experience placement at a physio unit at the local hospital. All the therapists were so enthusiastic about what they did, that focussing on only teeth suddenly felt a bit narrow for me. And I’ve never regretted my decision for a moment. It just suits me, being a physiotherapist. 

 

First Fit Physio Studio is exactly eighteen minutes walk from my flat in River Row, just past a Starbucks and next to a delicious bakery. It’s not the grandest place in the world and I’d probably earn more working at some smart sports centre or hospital, but I’ve worked here since qualifying, and I can’t imagine working anywhere else. Plus, I work with friends. You wouldn’t give that up in a hurry, would you?

 

I arrive at nine o’clock, expecting to have the usual staff meeting. We have one every Thursday morning, where we discuss patients and targets, new therapies, the latest research, stuff like that. I mean, there’s only three of us and we’ve known each other for _years_. So just _occasionally_ we lurch off into other areas like our boyfriends and the Topshop sale. There’s one particular patient I want to talk about, actually: Mrs Rivers. My sweet 65-year-old with the ligament problem. She’s pretty much recovered - but last week she came in twice, and this week she’s booked three appointments. I’ve told her she just needs to excercise at home with her Dyna-Bands, but she insists she needs my help. I think she’s become totally dependent on us - which might be good for the cash register but is _not_ good for her. 

 

So I’m quite looking forward to the meeting. But to my surprise, the meeting room is set up differently from usual. The table has been pulled to one end of the room with two chairs behind it - and there’s a sole chair facing it in the middle of the room. It looks like and interview set up. 

 

The reception door pings to signal that someone’s entered, and I turn to see Randa coming in with a big Starbucks tray. She’s got some complicated, braided arrangement in her long dark hair, and she looks like an ancient Goddess. 

 

“Hi Randa! Whats up?”

 

“You’d better talk to Mya.” She gives me a sidelong look, without smiling. 

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t think I should say.” She takes a sip of cappuccino, eyeing me secretly over the plastic lid. 

 

What’s up now? Randa’s quite prickly, in fact, she’s a bit of a child. She goes all quiet and sulky and then it all comes out that yesterday you asked her for a patient file too impatiently and hurt her feelings. 

 

Mya is the opposite. She’s all spiky short hair and deep blue eyes with a huge bust, and is so packed full of common sense it’s practically wafting out of her ears. The minute you’re in her company you feel saner, calmer, jollier and stronger. No wonder this physio practice has been a success. I mean, Randa and I are ok at what we do, but Mya is the star. Everyone loves her. Men, women, grannies, kids. She also put up the money for the business (well, her dad did) so she’s officially the boss. 

 

“Morning, Sweets! Mya comes breezing out from her treatment room, beaming her usual wide smile. Her hair has been fluffed up and is sticking out at crazy angles, but it suits her. “Now look, it’s a real pain,but I have to give you a disciplinary hearing.”

 

“ _What_?” I gape at her. 

 

“Not my fault!” She lifts her hands. “I want to get accreditation from this new body, the PFFA. I’ve just been reading the material and they say if your staff chat up the patients you have to discipline them. We should have done it anyway, youknow that, but now I need to have the notes ready for the Inspector. We’ll get it all done really quickly.”

 

“I didn’t chat him up!” I say defensively. “He chatted _me_ up!”

 

“I think the panel will decide that, don’t you?” Chimes in Randa, forbiddingly. She looks so grave I feel a tickle of worry. “I _told_ you you’d been unethical.” She adds. “You should be prosecuted.”

 

“ _Prosecuted_?” I appeal to Mya. I can’t believe this is happening. Back when Joff proposed Mya said it was such a romantic story she wanted to cry, and that ok, strictly it was against the rules but in her opinion love conquered all, and _please_ could she be a bridesmaid. 

 

“Randa, you don’t mean prosecuted.” Mya rolls her eyes. “Come on, let’s convene the panel.”

 

“Who’s on the panel?”

 

“Us.” Says Mya blithely. “Me and Randa. I know we should have another external person, but I didn’t know who to get. I’ll tell the inspector I had someone lined up and they were ill.” She glances at her watch. “Ok, we’ve got twenty minutes. Morning Angela!” She adds cheerily as our receptionist pushes the front door open. “Don’t let any calls through, ok?”

 

Angela just nods and sniffs and dumps her rucksack on the floor. She has a boyfriend in a band, so she’s never very communicative in the mornings.”

 

“Oh, Sansa,” Mya says over her shoulder as she leads the way into the meeting room. “I was supposed to give you two weeks notice to prepare. You don’t need that, do you? Can we say you had it? Because there’s only a week and a bit till the wedding, so it would mean dragging you away from your honeymoon or leaving it till you’re back, and I _really_ want to get the paperwork done...”

 

She’s ushering me into the sole chair, marooned in the middle of the floor while she and Randa take their seats behind the table. Any minute now I expect a bright light to be shined in my eyes. This is horrible. Everything’s suddenly turned. Its them against me. 

 

“Are you going to _fire_ me?” I feel ridiculously panicked. 

 

“No! Of course not!” Mya is unscrewing her pen. “Don’t be silly!”

 

“We might,” says Randa, shooting me an ominous look. 

 

She’s obviously loving her role as Chief Henchwoman. I know what this is all about. It’s because I got Joff and she didn’t.

 

Here’s the thing. Randa is the beautiful one.Even I want to stare at her all days and I’m not remotely attracted to girls. If you’d said to anyone last year which one of us would land a guy and be engaged by next spring, every sane person would have immediately answered with “Randa!”

 

So I can understand her point of view. She must look in the mirror and see herself (Goddess) and then see me (too tall, ginger hair, best feature: long eyelashes) and think...what the fuck?

 

Plus, as I said, Joff was originally booked with her. And at the last minute she switched our appointments. Which is _not my fault_.

 

‘So,” Randa looks up from her moleskin notepad. “Lets just run over the facts, Miss Stark. On December 15th last year, you treated a Lord Joffrey Baratheon here at the clinic.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“For what form of injury?”

 

“A sprained wrist sustained while skiing.”

 

“And during this appointment, did he show any...inappropriate interest in you? Or you him?”

 

I cast my mind back to the first time Joffrey walked into my room. He was wearing a long, red coat, and his blonde hair glistened with rain and his face was flushed from walking outside. He was ten minutes late, and immediately rushed over, clasped both my hands and said “I’m most _terribly_ sorry.” in his lovely, well educated voice. 

 

“I...er, no...” I say defensively. “It was just a standard appointment.”

 

Even as I say this, I know it’s not true. In standard appointments, your heart doesn’t start to pound as you take the patient’s arm. The hairs on the back of your neck don’t rise. You don’t hold on to his hand just very slightly longer than you need to. 

 

Not that I can say any of this. I really would be fired. 

 

“I treated the patient over the course of a number of appointments.” I try to sound calm and professional. “By the time we realised our affection for each other, his treatment was over. It was therefore totally ethical.” 

 

“He told me it was love at first sight!” shoots back Randa. “How do you explain _that_? He told me you were instantly attracted to each other and he wanted to ravish you right there on the cough. He said he’d never known anything as sexy as you in your uniform.”

 

I’m going to shoot Joff. What did he have to say that for?

 

“Objection!” I glower at her. “That evidence was procured while under the influence of alcohol and in a non-professional capacity. It therefore cannot be allowed in court.”

 

“Yes it can! And you are _under oath_!” She jabs a finger at me.’’

 

“Objection sustained.” Mya interrupts, and looks up from writing, a distant, wistful look in her eyes. “Was it really love at first sight?” She leans forward, her massive bosom bulging everywhere. “Did you _know_?”

 

I close my eyes and try and visualize that day. I’m not sure what I knew, except I wanted to ravish him on the couch too. “Yes,” I say at last. “I think so.”

 

“It’s _so_ romantic.” Mya sighs. 

 

“And wrong!” Randa chimes in sharply. “The minute he showed interest in you, you should have said ‘Sir, this is inappropriate behavior, I would like this session to end and for you to transfer to another therapist.’”

 

“Oh, another therapist!” I can’t help a short laugh. “Like _you_ , by any chance?”

 

“Maybe! Why not?”

 

“And if he’d shown interest in you?”

 

She lifts her chin proudly. “I would have handled it without compromising my ethical principles.” 

 

“I was ethical!” I say in outrage. “I was totally ethical!”

 

“Oh yes?” She narrows her eyes like a prosecuting barrister. “What led you to suggest exchanging appointments with me in the first place, Miss Stark? Had you, in fact, already Googled him and decided you wanted him for yourself?”

 

Aren’t we over this?

 

“Myranda, _you_ wanted to swap appointments! I never suggested anything! I had no idea who he was! So if you feel like you missed out, tough luck. Don’t swap next time.”

 

For a moment, Randa says nothing. She’s getting pinker and pinker in the face. 

 

“I know!” she bursts out at last and bangs a fist to her forehead. “I know! I was so _stupid_. _Why_ did I swap?”

 

“So what?” Cuts in Mya firmly. “Randa, get over it. Joffrey obviously isn’t meant for you, he’s meant for Sansa. So what does it matter?”

 

Randa is silent. I can tell she isn’t convinced. 

 

“It’s not fair,” she mutters, at last. “Do you _know_ how many bankers I’ve massaged at the King’s Landing Marathon? Do you _know_ how much effort I’ve made?”

 

Randa cottoned on to the Marathon a few years ago, when she was watching it on TV and realised it was full of fit, motivated guys in their forties, who were probably single because all they did was gorunning, and ok, forties is a bit old, but _think_ what kind of salary they must be on. 

 

So she’s been volunteering as an emergency physiotherapist every year since. She makes a beeline for all the attractive men and works their calf muscles or whatever, while fixing them with her huge blue eyes and telling them she’s always supported that charity too. She also completely ignores all the poor women with twisted ankles. 

 

To be fair, she’s got loads of dates out of it - one guy even flew her over to the Summer Isles - but nothing long-term or serious, which is what she wants. What she won’t admit, of course, is that she’s extremely picky. She pretends that she wants a ‘really nice, straightforward guy with good values’ but she’s had several of those desperately in love with her, and she dumped them, even the really good-looking actor (his stage play ended and he had no other work lined up). What she’s really looking for is a guy who looks like he’s out of a gilette commercial, with a massive salary and/or a title. Preferably both. I think that’s why she’s so mad about losing out of Joffrey. She once asked me I would be Lady Sansa after we married and I said yes and she went kind of green.

 

Mya scribbles something down, then screws on her pen lid. “Wellm I think we’ve covered the facts. Well done everyone.”

 

“Aren’t you going to give her a warning or something?” Randa is still pouting.

 

“Oh, fair point.”Mya nods, then clears her throat. “Sansa, don’t do it again.”

 

“Ok,” I shrug.

 

“I’ll put that in writing, show it to the inspector, that’ll shut him up. By the way, did I tell you I’ve found the perfect strapless bra to go under my bridesmaid dress? Mya beams up at me, back to her cheery self. “Aquamarine satin. It’s _beautiful_.”

 

“Sounds amazing!” I get up and reach for the Starbucks tray. “Is one of these for me?”

 

“I got you a flat white with nutmeg,” Randa says begrudgingly. 

 

As I take it, Mya gives a small gasp. “Sansa! Haven’t you found your ring?”

 

I look up and see both Randa and Mya staring at my left hand. 

 

“No,” I admit reluctantly. “I mean, I’m sure it’ll turn up somewhere...”

 

“Shit.” Randa has a hand over her mouth. 

 

“I thought you found it.” Mya is frowning. “I’m sure someone said you found it.”

 

“No. Not yet.”

 

I’m _really_ not enjoying their reaction. Neither of them is saying, “Not to worry,” or “These things happen.” They both look completely horrified, even Mya. 

 

“So, what will you do?” Mya’s brows are knitted.

 

“What did Joffrey say?” chips in Randa, helpfully.

 

“I...” I take a gulp of flat white, playing for time. “I haven’t told him yet.”

 

“Sheesh.” Randa exhales.

 

“How much is it worth?” Trust Randa to ask all the questions I don’t want to think about.

 

“Quite a bit, I suppose. I mean, there’s always insurance...” I trail off lamely.

 

“So, when are you planning to tell Joffrey?” Mya has that disapproving look on her face. I hate that face. It makes me feel small and mortified. Like that awful time she caught me giving an ultrasound and texting at the same time. Myais just someone you instinctively want to impress. But in my defense, it was an emergency. Brienne had just been dumped by some on again off again guy Jaime and the client couldn’t see what I was doing. But I know, I was wrong.

 

“Tonight. Neither of you guys have seen it have you?” I can’t help asking, even though it’s ridiculous, like they’ll suddenly say, “Oh yes, it’s in my bag!”

 

They both shrug ‘No’ silently. Even Randa is looking sorry for me. 

 

Oh Gods. This is really bad.

 

 

By six o’clock it’s even worse. Randa has Googled emerald and diamond rings. Did I ask her to do this? No, I did not. Joffrey has never told me how much the ring is worth. I asked him, jokingly, when he first put it on my finger, and he just joked back that it was priceless, just like me. It was all really romantic and lovely. We were having dinner at this fancy placeon the Street of Silk and I had no idea he was going to propose. None. I mean, we’d only been together a month!

 

Anyway, the point is, I never knew what the ring cost and I never wanted to know. At the back of my mind I keep trying out lines to Joffrey like “Well, I didn’t _realise_ it was so valuable. You should have _told_ me.”

 

Not that I’d have the nerve to really say that. I mean, how dumb would you have to be not not realise that an emerald and diamond ring our of a bank vault is worth something? Still, it’s been comforting not having a precise figure in mind.

 

But now here’s Randa brandishing a sheet of paper she’s printer from Google. “Art Deco, fine quality emerald, with baguette diamonds,” she’s reading out. “Estimate: 25,000 gold dragons.”

 

“What?” My insides turn to jelly. That can’t be right. “He wouldn’t have given me anything that expensive. His family’s house is _falling down_.” 

 

“That doesn’t mean they’re _poor_! Look at all the property they own. And Robert’s practically a celebrity. Look! This one is thirty thousand,” She holds up another sheet. “It looks exactly like yours. Don’t you think, Mya?”

 

I can’t look.

 

“ _I_ would never have let it off my finger.” Randa adds, arching her eyebrows, and I almost want to hit her.

 

“ _You’re_ the one who wanted to try it on!” I say furiously. “If it hadn’t been for you, I’d still have it.”

 

“No I wasn’t!” She retorts indignantly. “I just tried it on when everyone else did! It was already going around the table.”

 

“Well whose idea was it, then?”

 

I’ve been racking my brains about this again - but if my memory was hazy yesterday, it’s even worse today.

 

I’m never going to believe a Poirot mystery again. Never. All those witnesses going “Yes, I remember it was 3.06pm exactly because I happened to glance at the clock as I reached for the sugar tongs, and Lady Stokeworth was quite clearly sitting on the right hand side of the fireplace...”

 

Bollocks. They have no idea where Lady Stokeworth was, they just don’t want to admin it in front of Poirot. I’m amazed he gets anywhere. 

 

“I’ve got to go,” I turn away before Randa can taunt me with any more expensive rings.

 

“To tell Joff?”

 

“Wedding meeting with Margaery first. Then Joff and his family.”

 

“Let us know what happens! Text us!” Randa frowns. “That reminds me, Sansa, how come you changed your number?”

 

“Oh that. Well I went out of the hotel to get a better signal and I was holding out my phone...”

 

I break off. On second thoughts, I can’t be bothered to get into the whole story of the mugging and the phone in the bin and Sandor Clegane. It’s all too weird and I haven’t got the energy.

 

Instead I shrug. “Just...you know. Lost my phone. Got another one. See you tomorrow.”

 

“Good luck, Sans!” Mya pulls me in for a quick hug.

 

“Text!” Randa shouts after me as I head out of the door. “We want hourly updates.”

 

She would be great at public execution, Randa. She would have been the one at the front, jostling for a good view of the axe, already sketching the gory bits to put up on the village noticeboard, just in case anyone missed it.

 

Or, you know, whatever they did before Facebook.

 

I don’t know why I bothered rushing, because Margaery is late. As always.

 

In fact, I don’t know why I bothered to have a wedding planner at all. But I only ever think that to myself, very quietly, because Margaery is an old family friend of Robert and Cersei and every time I mention her, Joff says, “Are you to getting along?” in raised, hopeful tones, like we’re two endangered pandas who have to make a baby.

 

It’s not that I don’t _like_ Margaery. It’s just that she stresses me out. She sends me all of these bulletins by text the whole time, of what she’s doing, and where, and keeps telling me what an effort she’s making on my behalf, like the sourcing of the napkins, which was the _hugest_ saga and took her for ever and three trips to the fabric supplier in The Vale. 

 

Also, her priorities seem a little screwy. Like, she hired an ‘IT Wedding Specialist’ at great expense, who set up whizzy things like a text alert system to give all the guests updates (which nobody uses) and a webpage where guests can register what outfit they’re wearing and avoid “unfortunate outfit clashes” (which also nobody uses). But while she was doing all that, she didn’t get back to the caterers we wanted, and we nearly lost them.

 

We’re meeting in the lobby of Baelor’s, the fanciest hotel in King’s Landing. Margaery loves hotel lobbies - don’t ask me why. I sit there patiently for twenty minutes, drinking weak black tea, wishing I’d cancelled and feeling sicker and sicker at the thought of seeing Joffrey’s parents. I’m just wondering if I might actually have to go to the Ladies and be ill - when she suddenly appears, all flying golden waves and designer perfume and six mood boards under her arm. Her suede spiky stilettos are tapping on the marble floor and her pink cashmere coat is billowing out behind her like a pair of wings.

 

Trailing in her wake is Renly, her ‘assistant’. (If an unpaid intern is called an assistant. Personally, I’d call it slave labour.) Renly is very posh and very sweet and very terrified of Margaery. He keeps telling people how great it is to learn the ropes first-hand from an experienced professional. I’m a little doubtful of Margaery’s so-called experience. Whenever I ask her about other weddings she’s done, she only ever refers to one, which was another a friend, and consisted of thirty people in a restaurant. But obviously I never mention this in front of Joffrey. Or Renly. Or anyone. 

 

“So, I’ve been talking to the vicar. Those arrangements aren’t going to work. The wretched pulpit has to stay where it is.” Margaery descends into a chair in a leggy sprawl, and all the mood boards slide out of her grasp and clatter all over the floor. “I just don’t know why people can’t be more _helpful_. I mean, what are we going to do now? And I haven’t heard back from the caterers.”

 

I can barely concentrate on what she’s saying. I’m suddenly wishing I’d arranged to meet Joffrey first, on my own, to tell him about the ring. Then we could have faced his parents together. Is it too late? Could I quickly text him on the way?

 

“...And I still haven’t got a trumpeter.” Margaery exhales sharply, two glossy lacquered nails to her forehead. “There’s so much to do. It’s insane. _Insane_. It would have _helped_ if Renly had typed out the order of service properly.” She adds a little savagely. 

 

Poor Renly flushes beetroot and I shoot him a sympathetic smile. It’s not his fault. He’s severely dyslexic and put ‘hymen’ instead of ‘hymn’ and the whole thing needed to be redone.

 

“We’ll get there!” I say encouragingly. “Don’t worry!”

 

“I’m telling you, after this is over I’m going to need a week in a spa. Have you seen my _hands_?” Margaery pushes them towards me. “That’s stress!”

 

I have no idea what she’s talking about. Her hands look perfectly normal to me. But I stare at them obediently. 

 

“You see? Wrecked. All for your wedding, Sansa! Renly, order me a G&T.”

 

“Right. Absolutely.” Renly eagerly leaps to his feet.

 

I try to ignore the tiny stab of irritation. Margaery’s always throwing little references like that into the conversation. “All for you, Sansa!” “Just to make you happy, Sansa!” “The bride’s always right!”

 

She can sound quite pointed sometimes, which I find quite disconcerting. I mean, I didn’t ask her to be a wedding planner, did I? And we are paying her an extortionate amount of money. But I don’t want to say anything, because she’s Joff’s old friend and everything.

 

“Marg, I was just wondering, have we booked the cars yet?” I say tentatively.

 

There’s an ominous silence. I can tell that a wave of fury is rising inside Margaery, from the way her nose starts to twitch. At last it erupts, just as poor Renly arrives back.

 

“Oh _fucking_ hell. Fucking... _Renly_!” She turns her wrath on the poor boy. “ _Why_ didn’t you remind me about the cars? They need cars! We need to hire them!”

 

“I...” Renly looks helplessly at me. “Um...I didn’t know...”

 

“There’s always something!” Margaery is almost talking to herself. “Always something else to think about. It’s endless. However much I run myself into the ground, it just foes on and on and on...”

 

“Look, shall I do the cars?” I say hastily. “I’m sure I can sort them.”

 

“Oh could you?” Margaery seems to wake up. “Would you do that? It’s just, there’s only one of me, you know, and I have spent the entire _week_ working on details, all for _your_ wedding, Sansa.”

 

She looks so stressed out. I feel a pang of guilt.

 

“Yes! No problem! I’ll just go on Yelp or something.”

 

“How’s your hair coming along, Sansa?” Margaery is suddenly focussing on my head, and I silently will my hair to grow another centimeter, very quickly.

 

“Not bad! I’m sure it will all go into the chignon. Definitely.” I try to sound more positive than I feel. 

 

Margaery has told me about a hundred times now how short-sighted and foolish it was to cut my hair two weeks before the wedding. It was only a trim! She also told me in the wedding dress shop that with my ‘deathly pale’ skin, a white dress would never work and I should go for lime green instead. For my wedding day! Lime green! Luckily before she could force me into a green taffeta dress the shop owner chipped in and said Margaery was speaking nonsense: my red hair and blue eyes would set off the white beautifully so I chose to believe her instead. 

 

The G&T arrives and Margaery takes a deep slug. I take another sip of tepid black tea. Poor old Renly hasn’t got anything, but he looks like he’s trying to blend into his chair and not attract any attention at all. 

 

“And...you were going to find out about the confetti?” I add cautiously. “But I can do that too.” I backtrack quickly at Margaery’s expression. “I’ll phone the vicar.”

 

“Great!” breathes Margaery, sharply. “I’d appreciate that! Because there is only one of me and I _can_ only be on one place at once-” She breaks off abruptly and her gaze alights on my hand. “Where is your ring, Sansa? Oh my Gods, haven’t you _found_ it yet?”

 

As she lifts her eyes she looks so thunderstruck that I begin feeling sick all over again. 

 

“Not yet. But it’ll turn up soon. I’m sure it will. All the hotel staff are looking...”

 

“And you haven’t told Joff yet?”

 

“I will! I swallow hard. “Soon.”

 

“But isn’t it a really important family piece?” Margaery’s eyes are wide. “Won’t they be livid?”

 

Is she trying to give me a nervous breakdown? 

 

My phone buzzes and I grab it, grateful for the distraction. Joff has just sent me a text which dashes my secret hope that his parents would suddenly catch gastric flu and have to cancel.

 

**_Dinner at 8, whole family here. Cant wait to see you!_ **

 

“Is that your new phone?” Margaery frowns critically at it. “Did you get my forwarded texts?”

 

“Yes, thanks.” I nod. Only about thirty-five of them, all clogging up my inbox. 

 

When she heard I’d lost my phone, Margaery insisted on forwarding all her recent texts to me, just so I didn’t ‘drop the ball.’ To be fair, it was quite a good idea. I got Joff to forward all his most recent messages too, and the girls at work.

 

Ned Reed, whoever he is, has also finally contacted Sandor. I’ve been looking out for that email all day. I glance at it distractedly, but it doesn’t seem particularly earth shattering to me: ‘Re Sunspears’ bid’

 

**_Sandor, Hi._ **

 

**_A few points. You’ll see from the attachment, blah blah blah...._ **

 

Ok, so it didn’t say that, it might as well have though. Anyway. I’d better forward it on straight away. I press forward and make sure it’s gone. Then I type a quick reply to Joff, my fingers fumbling with nerves.

 

Great Can’t wait to see your parents!!!! So exciting!!!!! :) :) :) PS could we meet outside first? Something I really want to talk about. Just a teeny tiny thing. Xxxxxxxxx


End file.
